


The Windmill over the hill

by spaghetti_garrote



Series: The Winter of '69 [2]
Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Corpse Desecration, Graphic Description of Corpses, Intrusive Thoughts, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Violent Thoughts, maybe the author shouldn't have written so much violence, william is a teenager again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28672869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spaghetti_garrote/pseuds/spaghetti_garrote
Summary: The windmill watches him from the top of the hill, and the rotating blades are hardly visible from his house safely far away from the valley. The eyes of the forest watch him because they know what he’s done, and he welcomes them to watch. He embraces their regard because he is the most beautiful creature in the woods and when they eat the flesh from his bones it will be a worship.William Afton did not kill Delilah Miller.
Series: The Winter of '69 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106021
Comments: 3
Kudos: 8





	The Windmill over the hill

**Author's Note:**

> it gets pretty graphic ok please believe me.

_ Thursday, February 6th, 1969 _

The valley behind the school, half a kilometer from the windmill and two from the village is cast in a soft light. Early afternoon where the sun is still high in the sky and the light reflects off the snow, but the heavy ambience of winter swallows the brightness reminiscent of summer.

William shuffles through the snow, walking in the already walked path for as long as he can towards his set. A patch of coniferous trees. 

His boots sink into the snow silently. He's grateful that while it's long past the darkest days of the year, the snow fall hasn't even begun to lessen. The fresh snow absorbs his footsteps easily and renders them completely mute, he prefers it this way where he can walk in anonymity.

And anonymous he is, because he is no longer William Afton. Such a person does not exist here in the snow field, rather here sits a completely different boy with burgundy hair and predatory blue eyes. Good little Will is playing with some other boys on the field just outside the school, a good game of football, where the snow has been trampled so much it's no longer an obstacle. His girlfriend Beatrice is at a dance class, she has a recital next week and his ticket is in his school bag, and he has money set aside to buy her roses, (isn’t he so good?).

Here, sitting crouched among the trees is nobody of importance, and his purpose is of even less. He frowns as his fingers roll over the bottle in his pocket. A failed attempt at making chloroform, how naïve he was to think his literal backyard chemistry experiment completely skipping the refinement process could even come close to being a functional sedative. The only thing he learned from it was how easy it is to strangle something, or rather how hard it is not to. 

He won’t let it get him down. He had a moment of weakness a while ago and made some poor decisions but now is not the past. He feels more confident now, and there’s nothing to worry about -  _ She knows she knows she knows - _

He shivers as the cold starts to get to him. Sitting still in the shade is a lot chillier than in the slowly fading sunlight, but he can't risk being seen by anyone. He reaches a gloved hand into his message bag strung over his shoulder, a little higher than most would and runs over the crowbar. Stolen from the general store, nobody would even notice except the poor sucker who turned his back on him. He feels no guilt, anyone foolish enough to let him steal so easily deserves to be stolen from.

He peeks his head around the coniferous tree and barely makes out a silhouette approaching from the hill beyond. He squints against the reflective glare of the snow, but resigns as it's just a blurry mass. His vision is admittedly lacking but he wouldn't be caught dead wearing glasses, and while he can't make out who it is, he's almost confident it's who he is waiting for.

He sits in a position to preserve his energy, but also allows for a quick take off. He decides he can leave his school bag tucked under the tree safely without too great a fear of misplacing it or being robbed. He hates that the contents of the bag are likely highly incriminating, but they're no safer at home where his mother might rummage so intrusively through his belongings. He has no reason to believe she would, but she could, and the idea is too threatening to his lifestyle.

It’s easy to drift back into melancholy as his attention is caught by the windmill and its hypnotic spin. What even is a windmill and what does it do? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care. The ugly beige paint is yellowish like old people’s teeth against the clear blue sky. His eyes leave the windmill and track down the hill until they meet his subject.

A smile forms on his thin lips when he sees her more clearly now. Black hair and blue eyes, a rather boxy build, and a bubbly yet brash attitude makes Delilah Miller. She has this nerve wracking habit of shaking her greasy hair and tying and untying her hair with its white ribbon over and over. William knows this too well because he sits behind her in English class. When class is dismissed there will undoubtedly be a little mess of shedded hair on the floor behind her seat, god forbid the dandruff on the back to her blouse when she scratches her head in frustration during assessments. Many a time he’s wanted to take the white silk ribbon and wrap it around her neck and squeeze the life out of her, that way she wouldn’t do that annoying ritual again.

This is only one of the reasons why Delilah Miller is a formidable subject for his experiment. He’s ruled that her life expectancy is more pitiful than most, between her shallow personality and unintelligent mind, this way she could finally offer something to society.

In chemistry class, they briefly discussed the ethical concerns that need to be taken into account for when designing an experiment. He thinks that it would be limiting to the data he can obtain, and right now scientific progress and moral purity were enemies he could not afford to both appease. This was beyond either, it was time to collect a set of data unlike any other. He wouldn’t have to do this if he weren’t the first to dream up such an experiment. Yes it is skewed because all the data is self reported, but he doesn’t care. He’s practically revolutionary.

His fingers tighten around the crowbar now hidden in his sleeve and he shivers as the cold metal touches his bare wrist, so he tugs the black cotton gloves under his latex gloves a little to help combat the frigid temperatures. 

She continues to make her way down the hill and he's bubbling with anticipation.

He can see the buttons on her jacket now, it's a blue peacoat, not unlike his own black. It matches the cool grey uniform skirt well enough, but hardly the emerald green vest. Nobody likes the school colours either way. Whoever thought a pine green and iron grey would make good school colours? They remind him of the lichen growing on the graveyard gates, but they at least tastefully range from gold to teal.

As she walks by he can't help but smirk. She never looks over her shoulder or questions the set of footsteps that walk parallel to her path home. Perhaps she could reason that they were her own from the day before, but it has snowed lightly during the day, and it would snow again that night, that was why he had to act now.

He stands behind the trees and watches as she walks by, observing intensely for the moment he'd pass her peripheral vision so he can advance.

He stalks her, following the metronome-like rhythm to her steps, preparing to strike as he takes a deep breath and prepares to drop the crowbar down his sleeve and into his grasp. 

She suddenly stops.

Standing still just two meters behind her, he holds his breath and listens to her noisy breathing. She slowly takes another step forward but he doesn't match it this time. 

She looks down.

_ She sees his shadow. _

Delilah whips her head around and yelps when she sees him. "W-william! How long have you been there?!"

"Just a moment." He shrugs, carefully holding his crowbar, careful not to let it slip into sight. "I was just about to speak to you."

"O-oh? What ab-bout?" Her nervous trembling voice is amusing, she looks uneasy still as if she's trying to calm down.

"I heard a terrible rumour, that John Anderson was going to stalk you, and do  _ things  _ to you" He says casually, taking a step forward. She takes one back, so to show good intentions he laughs a little and takes a small step back. "I'm sorry I startled you, it's just  _ you know _ what John is like, I was worried for your safety."

"Thanks for letting me know…" she looks uncomfortable. There's no going back.

He closes the distance between them.

"You know, I have to thank you for something." He lifts her chin with his left hand.

"Yeah…?" She’s beyond uncomfortable now, looking away from his direct gaze.

It was her who convinced him to ask Beatrice out. At first it was a matter of amusement, but their affair was filled to the brim with blackmail.  _ She knows what he’s like. Does she love him regardless, or because of it? Does she even believe him? _

"You’re a nasty girl you know..." He grins widely as his hands move to lock around her thick hair. He wraps it around and holds her close to his own body. Her breathing is  _ horrendously _ loud.

"What-" her eyes widen with fear and she tries to break free but he gets his whole body around her quick enough. He's hesitant to take the next step but she's hesitant to fight back so it's alright.

"I despise you. From the day we met I think I always wanted you dead." He expected to feel so kind of elation from admitting that, but the empty feeling in his chest leaves him filled with despair.

"Filthy, simple thing. Nobody will miss you." He's almost aggravated by the lack of emotional response as he resists her struggling.  _ When is she gonna start screaming?  _ The thought amuses him but he's cut short by his imagination coming to fruition when she lets out a nails-on-chalkboard-esque screech.

Furious he slams her head into the snow, burying it to try to stop her screams but it doesn't work. Panic rises in his throat as his hands clam over her face, but messily drifts to her neck where he applies pressure. He's as violent as he can muster himself to be but he has to resist the empathetic pain seizing his own throat.  _ Is she still screaming? Will they be heard? _

She's no longer screaming, flailing certainly and making miserable noises but not screaming. She tries to claw at his arms and face, but distance and fabric stops it from having any effect.

He's tired of this empathetic feeling, he knows how to get rid of it too, it's a simple exercise he practices often with himself. Without loosening his grip on her neck he takes a few breaths and it's almost as if he's left his body just a little. His sense of self is not in his body, just above the back of his head, just slightly suggesting to leave entirely. With this done he can finally look at this situation he should have from the beginning. Rage is a tainting emotion he shouldn't let interfere for the sake of data.

The crowbar slips down his sleeve and he catches it, holding it firmly. He raises his arm above her, weapon in hand and takes a breath. He pays special attention to his veins and expects the adrenaline buzz but it never comes.

He strikes her head and she screams, he swings back a few more times and the sobbing screams morph into groans and pleads. 

He presses the iron bar against her throat and uses his body to apply pressure.

"B-beg…" He mutters as his breaths are becoming satisfyingly more shallow. "B-Beg for your life you stupid whore!" As he's about to cry he shakes the feeling off by widening his eyes and blinking away the tears.

"P-please…" she wheezes, her feeble hands try to push back against the crowbar but they soon slack and fall down next to her head.  _ What a suggestive position _ he momentarily thinks before being overwhelmed with disgust. “Ple-ease…” she sputters as her eyes are rolling back in her head, he probably should have asked her to beg a little sooner.

The metal meets her skull several more times and he wonders how much enjoyment is he even getting from this? It doesn’t matter if he is or not, he’ll make it so that he is. No, he has to be honest, for the sake of his study. The wet splatter of flesh and blood as the wound forms steadily excites him and the growing sensation in his arms eggs him on further. These are his true emotions.

He throws open her coat unceremoniously so that he can jab the forked end of the weapon into her chest. It's met with less resistance than he expects, and he can make her bleed quickly. Blossom of crimson erupting all over her pale flesh and he's overcome with the horror of her bleeding potential corpse.

When do you start rendering someone a corpse? Do they have to decompose a little first? Let the blood sink through the body and pool at the bottom? Or is it the moment that the soul leaves the body? He'd like to measure that one day. He suddenly worries about getting blood on his coat, so he throws it off and into the snow. He doesn't feel cold, his internal body heat is enough to keep himself propelled.

He takes out his pocket knife and has to take several breaths before he has the courage to drive it through her neck. He thanks himself immediately for following through with that because the side effects are heavenly. Dragging the blade through her flesh as the blood pressure lessens and the splatter fades, Delilah looks up at him with those empty- no that  _ one _ empty eye, the other has been bloodied and beat in. He whispers thanks to her as he mashes the knife around, it's near worship. She’s more deserving of his adoration than God.

The gash in her neck spills hot red that slips over his gloves and the evil that weighs him down spills out in tears into the wound. Gone are the faster than life violent thoughts and sadistic words that fill his lungs, looking down he’s finally calm and crying like a bride on her wedding day.

Delilah Miller is no more. She was ugly and wasteful, but the corpse (he's decided it is a corpse now) is beautiful and he is thankful for her existence. Cradling her bashed in face he wants to keep something as a souvenir, a portal to a moment in time where he felt purer than the snow he had spoiled.

He takes the white ribbon from her hair and stuffs it in his pocket as a prize. He's always hated that thing, but now it is a reminder of something absolutely glorious. Still he wants more, he can’t help that he’s greedy, just like he can’t help that she needed to die for him. He doesn’t want to let go of her, he’ll miss the unrivalled splendour of a human corpse,  _ she’s his first.  _ It took so much to actually start, but once he was in the right mindset it was a wonder. He wants to take something more from her, as if her life wasn’t enough. 

Something to take note of, it took a significant amount of activation energy, he’ll have to include that in his study, oh the funny factors he forgot to consider until the experiment itself.

He can’t dilly dawdle however, the longer he sits with his artwork the more danger he’s in. The hole for her corpse is already dug. It's near a tree, so he feels good offering nutrition to the plant life. He buries her and jumps around on the dirt, packing it firmly into place. After sprinkling pine needles and cones over it before tossing snow over and spreading thin the bloodied snow he feels he's done a fantastic job when the sun kisses the horizon. He stands dazed in the golden light and starts walking home. Watching his blue shadow roll over the hills, he feels like he's in a painting by Monet. It's picturesque.

His vest is stained, and it worries him. He didn’t account for blood splatter, he’s not prepared to wash the blood out of his clothes. How could he be so foolish? It’s bundled up in his bag and he tries not to think about it. He has a spare vest, it’s a size too big but he’ll wear it. He’ll tell his mother it got lost at school, and that he’ll search for it the next day but he doubts he’ll find it again.

He wraps the white silky ribbon around his fingers in his pocket, it’s cold without his gloves but he wants the intimacy of touch. It’s a perverse joy, knowing that the ribbon belongs to a dead girl. He killed her and nobody will find out, how wonderful!

The windmill watches him from the top of the hill, and the rotating blades are hardly visible from his house safely far away from the valley. The eyes of the forest watch him because they know what he’s done, and he welcomes them to watch. He embraces their regard because he is the most beautiful creature in the woods and when they eat the flesh from his bones, it will be a worship.

He’s standing in front of his front door now, and he checks his reflection in the window to make sure he didn’t have any blood on him. There wasn’t of course, because there never was any blood, because William Afton did not kill Delilah Miller. 

When he enters the house it’s just as dark inside as it is outside, maybe more because of the lack of the grey glow of just past sunset. The shadows are enveloped in the familiar grey static that covers everything that he sees. If he didn’t know the layout of the room by heart he’d trip on the rug and tumble into a sofa, but it’s been the same since when he was an infant, just with various amounts of dying elderly people fluctuating throughout time. He was grateful when his bickering grandparents died because it finally allowed for the house to have a peaceful quiet.

He makes his way silently up the stairs to his bedroom, and tucks the incriminating materials under his bed. He'll have to clean, or burn them later, but that was something for later. Appearances are everything, so he stops by the bathroom to make sure he looks flawless. Inspecting his face and body intensely for any signs of blood, checking under his nails and fingers even though he wore gloves. A new pair of pants and fresh sweater (mustard yellow, cotton knit.) He brushes back the curls in his hair and tries to set them with water, but it’s near no good.

“Hey Mum.” He announces his presence to the warm glowing kitchen and is met with the smell of soup. Potato and leek he guesses, and when he peers into the pot over his mother’s shoulder, his suspicions are confirmed.

“Hello William! How was school?” She smiles warmly but he doesn’t look at her. He hugs her gently from behind before she shimmies free to take care of the food on the stove.

“Fine.”

“By the way! You have a letter, from Utah, waiting for you on the table.”

His eyes widen and he rushes to the table, tearing the letter open. “Utah?’ His eyes skim over the contents of the letter, jumping to the most important part-

“Oh! I’ve been accepted to the robotics program!”

“I knew you would.” She says. “Oh- we should go out to celebrate next weekend, at the restaurant, and bring your girlfriend!”

He nods. “That would be really nice.”

She looks at him slightly sadly. “Oh my little boy is all grown up, I’m going to miss you so when you move away overseas!” Her face wrinkles in a proud sadness.

“You’ve still got me for another 6 months.” He reassures her and she nods several times.

“I know… I’m very proud of you you know.”

“Yes.” He knows. He likes the feeling of knowing how blind she is. He’s a master of deception- the lord of lies! Literally the Devil incarnate! Whoa, calm down ego...

“Go tell your father the news, he’s in the back chopping wood.”

William nods and throws back on his jacket, shivering when the cold hits his face, he’s already been spoiled by the nice warmth of the stove.

“Father.”

“Hullo son.” He says mockingly, swinging the axe back into the block of wood.

“Mum says to come in, we’re eating soon.”

“Sure, one thing first.”

“Yes?”

His father hands him the axe. “Have a swing, I haven’t made you do this much, but it’s important you’re able to do this yourself.

William holds the heavy blade in his hands and looks over it carefully. The image of him slamming it into a woman’s torso flashes through his mind, he realises quickly it’s his mother with her red hair he’s thinking of. Her ribs crack and it fills him with a hot pleasure- no, terror. Hunger makes it hard to tell the two apart.

“Alright…” He raises it and prepares to swing. The idea of hitting himself suddenly jumps to mind and he panics, dropping the weapon and jumping back. Somehow he knows how it would feel to cut into his leg, he’d hit a key artery and bleed out, and he can feel it, he can see himself bleeding out, a burning pain that feels all too real terrifies him- 

What’s the difference between terror and horror? He spends so much time dwelling in these emotions and he should know by now.

“You alright Will?” his father's voice snaps him out of his trance.

“Yeah, just tired. Didn’t want to hurt myself.” He’s not lying at all.

“Responsible… nothin’ less from my brainiac son. You’re going to be one of those Harvard kiss-asses, I can see it now.” His father lets out a deep chuckle and rubs his head, messing up his carefully coiffed hair..

“Actually, I got into the school in Utah.” It’s always referred to as the school in Utah because that summarizes the most important points. One it’s in Utah, which is not North Yorkshire, but two, it is a school, and he would be the first person in their family to get a higher education. More proof he’s a cream above the rest. The name of the school or it’s rank or reputation is of little importance, the fact that he has gotten so far is already astounding enough.

“I’m so proud of you son!” he declares, and gives a heavy pat on William’s back.

“yeah… Me too.”

They’re so good to him, why did he turn out like this? It must be something fundamentally wrong with him, that’s why he’s entitled to this.

* * *

Is it just him, or is the dining room unusually hot?

William stirs his soup and finds it thicker than he expects, or maybe he’s just weak to the arms. The onions taste over cooked, the point where a layer seems to have returned to it’s waxy texture because it’s been over caramelized at the bottom of the pot. When he bites into the potato he nearly recoils, potatoes always absorb the salt in soup faster than anything else. Is he sweating? He hopes not. He’s tied the ribbon around his left wrist, which he keeps under the table as he eats. Every smile feels deliberate and calculated, or maybe fake and obvious. Maybe he’s glowing, yes he is, he wants to get up from the dinner table just to check his reflection in the mirror because he is beautiful. A smile creeps onto his face and he has to actively suppress it for a more neutral expression.

“What’s so funny William?” His mother asks.

“Nothing. Just remembered something funny.”

“Care to share with the rest of us?”

“Nope…” He gives his father a cheeky smile and takes another spoonful of soup. The fat is swimming in the bottom of his bowl just like the fat that seeped from her neck when he tore it apart.

The rotting corpse (yes she is a corpse, and most certainly rotting) has claimed all the evil in his body and he is glowing tonight. Pour the champagne! A toast to the gods! A toast to him, for he is a god.

* * *

_ Wednesday, February 13th, 1969 _

“William, Delilah hasn’t shown up for school in a few days.” Beatrice pesters him during lunch hour.

“Really?” His heart stutters for a moment as he slowly brings his eyes away from his boring meal to her. Beatrice is a lovely girl with strawberry blonde hair. She wears it down, without a ribbon. A white ribbon would suit her well.

“Yes really. You didn’t notice?”

“No I did, I just didn’t pay it any mind.” Play it casual boy, and they will be no more suspicious.

“Will you come with me? To visit her house after school?” She pleads, leaning against his arm.

“Of course.” He says dismissively, before adapting a more tender expression. “Of course I will, don’t worry. I’m sure she’s fine.”

“By the way, it’s Valentine’s day tomorrow.” She teases, and an annoyance starts to grow in his chest. When he looks at her he imagines her on the cafeteria floor, bleeding out from her neck. His body responds more strongly than he expected and it only adds to the growing paranoia rather than help dismiss it.

“So it is.” he touches his own face gently, and avoids her gaze.

“You better have something nice planned.”

“I do.” He lies. He’s been too occupied with his plans of homicide to even remember that he is supposed to love her. Whether he loves her or not is irrelevant, it’s instead his duty to perform love for her. Or else, she’ll have in the gallows.

“Come to dinner with my family this weekend.”

“Your family? They know about us?” she looks… frightened? No, shocked. Those emotions are harder to differentiate.

“Of course they do, and they’re eager to meet the lovely lady dating their son.”

“Oh my, William I didn’t take you for such a romantic!”

“I can play the part.”

* * *

Night comes and the paranoia swallows him whole again. You'd think night would be a refuge for him but every hour of day is a new flavour of condemnation.  _ A hot bath. That will do well.  _

He runs a bath as hot as he can bear and considers adding his mothers bath salts but the smell is too strong. Lavender is supposed to soothe the mind, but he finds it aggravating and harsh.  


Slowly he slides into the smooth tub, watching himself carefully as if to confirm to himself if he exists or not. Maybe he studies his own body too much, but he finds the mustard coloured light of the room unflattering to his complexion. One day he should just fix that himself, new light instalments. He sits in the bathtub, hot water up to his ears as he sinks deeper in. The steaming water makes him red. Cold makes him turn red, heat makes him turn red, anger, sadness, joy, they all make him turn red and he wishes that he didn’t. Oh to be unresponsive to it all! He wishes he couldn't feel, couldn't taste, couldn't smell, but also longs to feel and taste and smell and know everything. He sinks further into the tub until the water is below his eyelashes.

When he had scrubbed his skin the night of the murder, so fearful that he had missed a splotch of blood, he’d wound up turning red himself. His tender pale body can’t take this kind of effort, he’s too beautiful for this kind of exertion.

A dark thought crosses his mind, and he’s clearly no stranger to them. He indulges it, and lets it eat away at him as he considers it all. It’s this dry tearless unrelenting paranoia that tells him to kill himself as he wraps the white ribbon around his neck, finding himself unable to even more than moderately pull- Coward. Can’t even strangle himself. Was he even there when he killed her- did he even kill her? There’s no way to know if she’s actually dead right now, is there? How can he even confirm he killed her? His memory is a lie. There’s nothing more of her just as there is no William Afton. He’s as much her as she is him, and he finds sanctuary in that.

Miller. A common last name. He could be Delilah Miller. He’d look as good as her in her clothes. He’d be as good as her, he was  _ capable  _ of being as good as anyone. Nobody would have to know otherwise, and that would make it true.

He stands up from the bath briefly, and he’s cold. When he submerges himself back into the depths however in contrast it’s still not hot, rather it's lukewarm, unchanged. He’d like it to be boiling again but that’s not how this works. His body can only take so much of it, and it can only get so hot for so long.

He props a leg up against the side of the tub and lays a towel against it, carefully balancing his journal ontop and he rereads his observations, relishing in his own flowery language.

The data lines up. In his sanctuary of facts his conclusions can be drawn.

He liked killing her.

He hasn’t the time or energy to process the implications or what even in particular he was feeling, but they were feelings he’d like to drown in, never rising to the surface again to breathe.

He’s not stupid. He knows that murder is wrong. And that is why he can never do this again. As he kisses the ribbon and claims Delilah as his own he knows he can never do this again.

But who’s to stop him.

**Author's Note:**

> haha, just some fun. thanks for reading i guess : )


End file.
